


The Crab Pot

by Jaakkola



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Alcohol, Banter, Bar Room Brawl, Bastards to Bastards That Kiss, Canon-Typical Violence, Fights, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21882541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaakkola/pseuds/Jaakkola
Summary: Flynn picks a fight to get another man's attention, and it works about as well as you'd expect.
Relationships: Flynn Fairwind/Mathias Shaw
Comments: 4
Kudos: 78





	The Crab Pot

**Author's Note:**

> You guys've been busy while I've been not writing.

"And he's down!" Nancy yelled, and Flynn turned to the center of the room to see that Bearhands had won his fourth match in a row this night. Flynn rolled his eyes; Bearhands was a large man, even for a Kul Tiran, standing at a mighty eight feet and enough muscle to tear apart a log. Rumor had it that he was using azerite as a performance enhancer. Rumor also had it that people who said that a little too loud ran into him in a dark alleyway.

"Big guy win again?" the barkeep asked as brought over two tankards to Flynn.

"Yeah," Flynn replied with a sigh.

The barkeep shook his head. "Can't wait to see him get knocked down." He glanced to Flynn. "You didn't hear me say that."

"Say what?" Flynn feigned innocence.

The barkeep looked unamused, but seemed content with that reply. "And keep your lady friend out of trouble. People around here been nervous lately, with all the Ashvane nonsense."

Flynn clicked his tongue in affirmation, taking both tankards and turning back, watching as the crowd had already lost interest in the results of the last fight. Two injured losers hobbled their way out of the arena, while one was dragged out by his heels, the only thing not a bloody mess on him. Flynn found himself winching in sympathy as he made his way over to the table.

"I told you I didn't want another!" Taelia said when Flynn set down the two drinks on their table.

"What makes you think one's for you?" Flynn sat down and pulled them close in a mock protective gesture. Taelia rolled her eyes with a laugh in her breath, stopping short of any lecture. Her eyes glanced somewhere else, seemingly distracted by something. "If you ever think I've been replaced by an impostor, just take me to a tavern and try to drink me under."

"I don't think that would happen," Taelia said, looking back to Flynn.

"I don't know, I've heard adventurers talk about some strange things they've seen."

"No, I don't think someone with the capabilities of impersonating another would take after a simple Kul Tiran pirate."

"Hurtful!" Flynn said, putting a hand to his chest, and then, in a quieter tone, "I'll have you know that I am a proud member of the Alliance." Taelia rolled her eyes again with a shake of her head. Flynn took a drink, but doesn't fail to notice that Taelia looked away again, even if she was discreet with it. "Speaking of the Alliance, did you get your answer yet?"

"Hm?" Taelia looked back over. "Oh!" She exclaimed, "no, I didn't. I think he's avoiding me about it."

"What?" Flynn asked, "why?"

"I don't know, and it's making me worried."

"I mean, your father's a war hero, you'd think that what he did would be a story told for ages."

Taelia sighed. Another stolen glance. It was the same place, every time, and it was starting to annoy Flynn. "You'd think."

"Oh, you know what," Flynn said with a snap of his fingers, "one of the adventurers that went on the island expedition today was a death knight, I bet they know."

"You think so?"

"I mean, who'd know war stories from the war against the Lich King better than the blokes that hated the Lich King the most?"

Taelia seemed to think it over. "That's actually not a bad idea. I'll have to see if I can track one down tomorrow."

"I'm sure one will eventually show up in Snug Harbour Inn." Flynn took another drink, and Taelia looked back over Flynn's shoulder. "Okay, the Tidemother herself better be behind me," he said as he set down his drink.

Taelia's mouth turned into a slight frown. "There's a shifty guy in the corner."

"Tae, there's shifty guys in every corner in this place." The Crab Pot was one of the least reputable taverns in Boralus, with it's fighting ring in the middle being it's main attraction. Made for some good, unlawful entertainment, though. Flynn briefly wondered if he shouldn't have brought a Proudmoore cadet to this place.

"Well, that shifty guy over there watched you as you went to get another drink and is now watching our table." Taelia gave a slight nod.

Flynn tensed. "Look like a pirate?"

"Looks like someone who doesn't want to me recognized," Taelia responded.

With that, Flynn frowned and turned in his seat, trying his best to look casual about his looking around. There's several people gathered around tables, drinking and being merry, but one stuck out. Nestled in the corner was a man in dark clothing, drinking alone. He had a hood pulled over his head, and a mask covered most of his face, currently looking off somewhere else. Flynn wondered how he was suppose to drink with a cloth pulled well over his mouth and nose as he followed the man's gaze to the opposite end of the large tavern. Bearhands was over on that end, speaking far too loudly to a few of his buddies, all equally shady.

Flynn drummed his fingers against the table in a steady rhythm. Looking to dethrone Bearhands, or was it something to do with all those azerite rumors? And why look at Flynn at all? He glanced back over with that, and found the stranger looking back at him.

Flynn gave a wave and the stranger's eyes narrowed, unhappy green eyes enunciated by his coppery eyebrows.

"You know them?" Taelia asked.

"Don't think so," Flynn said, holding the stranger's gaze. It took a while to nail what his expression was. Analytic, and a bit annoyed. It reminded him of someone. Flynn drummed his fingers on the table one last time before taking a tankard and rising to his feet. "Well, wish me luck," he said.

"Flynn!" Taelia hissed after him, and Flynn purposely ignored her as he crossed over. The annoyed look turned threatening in an attempt to stop Flynn from coming over, but Flynn was immune to such looks. He pulled a chair out from the table, spun it around, and sat in it, facing the chair back.

"Hey there, mate," Flynn said.

The stranger seemed to be attempting murder via looks.

"Can I buy you a drink?"

The stranger didn't respond.

"C'mon, mate, I know you were looking over at me," Flynn set his tankard down on the table a tad too harsh, some liquor spilling out and onto the table. Flynn tried to wipe it up with his hands, immediately grimacing from the feeling of the spill soaking the palms of his gloves. "So, either you're looking for a dashing scoundrel to buy you a drink, which I am, or you want to punch me."

Flynn sucked on a finger, partly not to waste the alcohol, mostly because he wasn't looking forward to the sticky feeling on his hands when it begun to dry. He looked back over to the stranger, seeing that the angry expression had faded over to abrupt and utter confusion. "If you rather punch me, we could settle it in the Crab Pot." Flynn tilted his head back a bit, lowering his voice to say, "I've see you been eyeing that man over there, too."

There's still confusion on the stranger's face, but it's coupled with something else. Surprise, maybe? He shook his head at Flynn, still refusing to say anything.

"You're certainly dressed like you're itching for a fight." Flynn took a drink. "Rumor has it, he's doing something against the rules here, too." He mouthed the word 'azerite,' and the stranger's gaze went from Flynn to off behind the pirate, no doubtedly towards Bearhands. When his eyes glance back towards Flynn, the expression was utterly unreadable.

He then shook his head once more.

Flynn leaned back a bit, drumming fingers across the table. "You're not very convincing in that getup, mate."

The stranger glared, and Flynn stood up and stretched. He had a gut feeling, and his gut was rarely wrong, so Flynn flashed a grin towards the stranger. "You sure look like you want to punch me, after all."

Flynn took his tankard from the table and walked with confidence back over to Taelia, who was watching Flynn with an almost pained look on her face. "Everything go well?" She asked, clearly expecting the worse and being slightly shocked it hadn't happened yet.

"Yep," Flynn replied as he set down his tankard. His hands went to his sword belts, unbuckling one and setting it on the table.

"Please don't get in the Crab Pot," Taelia said.

"Why not?" Flynn asked, not stopping as he undid the second one.

"There's a good, eight foot reason across the tavern, for one."

Flynn grinned as he set his second belt down on the table. "Afraid of a good fight, Tae?"

Taelia just shook her head as Flynn shrugged out of his coat. "I'm afraid you ask for trouble too much."

Flynn set his coat on his chair. "Good thing you're here to keep me out of it."

"I can't keep you out of trouble if you don't listen to me!"

Flynn shrugged as he put his belts back on. "Wish me luck!"

"I'm not bringing you to a healer!" Taelia called after Flynn as he left the table. He glanced over to the stranger, finding him watching Flynn like a hunter watched their prey—still, rigid, and unmoving. He gave the stranger a confident, challenging look, daring him to do something.

Flynn jumped the railing of the fighting ring, lovingly named the same as the tavern. It was octogonal in shape, with a stool at every other corner. He felt eyes on him, and the mood shifted in the tavern, excited whispers building up a sense of anticipation. "Hey Bearhands!" Flynn called, immediately calling the attention of everyone at Bearhands' table. "I've come for the loot!" He threw his gold pouch to the middle, and turned to the stool closest to his and Taelia's table, taking a seat. Some of the more rowdier folks in the tavern cheer at that.

Bearhands straightened to his full height and sized Flynn up, giving a cocky grin before gathering his last four winnings in his large arms. He maneuvered over the railing and dropped the piles of gold pieces into the middle of the ring. "Don't cry too hard when I knock you down," he remarked as he headed for a stool in one of the corners.

"What makes you think that you're going to be coming out on top?" Flynn asked, feigning a tone of concerned innocence. "I hear that being too conceited gets you knocked down."

Bearhands snorted as he sat down, off to Flynn's right. "You're the one in the Crab Pot with me."

Flynn glanced across the Crab Pot to see another rather burly man join the fray, throwing in his own gold towards the middle. Flynn recognized him, he worked in the Ashvane docks. "I'll have some of this action," he said, voice harsh with a dry throat.

Bearhands snorted once more, clearly proud of the new round he's gotten. "Who's gonna be number four?" He called out to the tavern. It was still for a few moments before movement out of the corner of his eye caused Flynn to look over to his left, seeing a rather short man hop the railing into the crab pot. Mainlander short. He watched the dark armored stranger throw a gold pouch into the pile and take the last stool. Flynn grinned to himself. "A mainlander? And a short one at that?" Bearhands laughed.

The stranger didn't respond, but held Bearhands' gaze.

"You gonna say something?"

The stranger stayed silent, unmoving.

Bearhands scoffed.

"Alright, alright." Nancy said as she came over. A well respected, older woman that was kind, fair, and forgiving, and she owned the place. If anyone was to try anything on her, the whole tavern would be there to teach that person a lesson. "As always, the rules are that follow. No kill-shots, no hitting a man while he's on the ground. Weapons and cheap shots are allowed, but none of that azerite stuff. Last one standing is the winner. Understood?"

"Aye," the three Kul Tirans said together. The mainlander just nodded.

"Good. Three, two, one, go!" She called, and Flynn's on his feet in an instant, drawing his cutlasses. The stranger looked to Flynn, green eyes holding an emotion that Flynn couldn't decipher before Bearhands was lunging towards the stranger. The stranger glanced over and dropped himself low, ducking out of the way of the massive Kul Tiran man and drawing a dagger from his waist. Flynn's attention was pulled away by the dockworker charging towards Flynn, sword in hand. Flynn raised his cutlasses, crossing the blades and blocking the swing towards him. The dockworker's blade was caught between Flynn's, and Flynn leveraged him back with a grit of his teeth.

Both of them were startled by the stranger being pushed back into the dockworker, making the dockworker stumble and Flynn lose his leverage. The stranger ducked away as the dockworker turned towards him, and the dockworker was rewarded with a punch in the chest from Bearhands himself, obviously intending on hitting the short mainlander stranger rather than the bulky Kul Tiran dockworker. That was lost on the dockworker, however, or maybe he just didn't care, and Flynn had to pull himself back as the dockworker swung in a wide arc towards Bearhands.

Flynn looked to the stranger, who's green eyes flickered towards Flynn's a moment after. There was a look of hesitation in them; he really didn't want to face Flynn, it seemed. Too bad, Flynn flashed a grin and readjusted his grip on his cutlasses, moving around Bearhands and the dockworker, where the hesitant look turned dissuading. Flynn noticed that there was still a dagger at the stranger's waist, the other in his right hand. Flynn slashed twice towards the stranger, who managed to sidestep both and let Flynn try to close the gap.

A third swing proved too cocky; the stranger parried, grabbing Flynn by the shoulder with his left hand and pulling him hard past him with the momentum Flynn created, using the dagger in his other hand to give him a rather glancing blow at his side. Flynn stumbled through the motion with a surprised yelp, the railing stopping him from falling face first, but knocked the wind from him in the process.

There's the sound of crash behind Flynn, accompanied by some excited and sympathetic sounds from the crowd. He glanced over his shoulder to see the dockmaster had been pushed back and went right though the railing, landing on the ground hard. A second earlier and Flynn would have been underneath him. It almost made a man wonder if this mysterious stranger had pulled him out of the way for more than just a parry.

Flynn caught his breath, acknowledging the table he was facing. Three younger men, barely old enough to be anything other than a cabin boy, in his books. He nodded to them as there was a blur from the corner of his eye, and the stranger joined him against the railing with a pained grunt, Bearhands pinning him to it. Flynn looked back to the three, extending a hand out to them as far as he could and wiggling his fingers.

The one closest to Flynn got the message, taking a final, quick drink from his tankard before handing it over to Flynn. "Cheers," Flynn grinned as he took it, and he pushed himself off the railing and swung hard, bludgeoning Bearhand in the head with the metal tankard. The young men at the table cheered the loudest, but everyone in the tavern was ecstatic by the move. Nothing beat the feeling of a good fight.

Flynn dropped down quick and gathered a cutlass from the ground, standing and slashing upwards, his cutlass breaking skin. Flynn didn't miss the fact that the blood that began to seep from the wound was far too glittery to be normal blood. "Maybe you should be picking on someone your own size, mate," Flynn remarked as he watched Bearhands stumble off of the stranger, who pulled his dagger from Bearhands' leg. "Especially when you've been doing some illicit things under the table," Flynn clicked his tongue. "Naughty, naughty."

Flynn didn't miss the look the stranger through him. Not shocked, scolding, silently ordering him to close his mouth. Flynn ignored him, watching Barehands. He did _not_ seem to enjoy what Flynn said, growling, "you sure talk a lot about stuff you don't know about," he straightened up, hissing through his teeth as he turned to Flynn. "Especially when you're in a fighting ring with me."

"Y' blood's glittering, mate," Flynn smiled wide, like the cat that got the cream. He glanced over to Nancy, who watched the fight with her mouth drawn into a thin line. "And I've seen enough of azerite to know what it looks like when it mixes with blood."

Bearhands lunged for Flynn, but the stranger swiped his leg before he made it far, jamming the dagger into his shoulder and pushing him to the ground. He hit the ground hard, and the entire tavern lit up with cheers. Flynn hesitated, hands tightly gripping the tankard and a cutlass, watching to see if Bearhands would get up again. He glanced up to the stranger, and watched him sheathe his left hand dagger and pull out his right one. Flynn raised an eyebrow, and was rewarded with green eyes that screamed scowl.

"You and me, mainlander," Flynn grinned, stepping back towards the middle of the ring, carefully avoiding the two men lying on the ground. The stranger sized Flynn up as he approached him, dagger ready. Flynn lunged, cutlass swinging, only to be evaded. Another step, another swing, and Flynn managed to get off a slash across the dark leather chest piece.

The stranger did not like that, and he grabbed Flynn by his right wrist and pulled further. Hindsight came rather quickly, in the time it took for the stranger to swing Flynn around, pull his right arm behind him taught, and then dislocate his shoulder from his socket, sticking the knife in close to his left shoulder blade for good measure, to be precise. Flynn didn't hold back the pained sound, though with that quick move sending the tavern goers into a frenzy, he doubted anyone other than the stranger would have heard it.

Flynn wasn't one to go down easy, however. He jammed the heel of his boot into the shin of the stranger, following with his left elbow to the chest as he was quickly and painfully reminded that there was still a dagger in his shoulder. The stranger was kind enough to pull it out as he stumbled back, and Flynn pulled himself from the strangers grip and spun on his heels, whipping the tankard around and clipping the top of the stranger's head. It gave Flynn a moment to catch his breath, to feel the adrenaline pumping hard with his blood.

The stranger pressed a hand to his temple briefly, shooting Flynn an unreadable glance as he did so. "It'll take more that that to bring me down," Flynn said, self-assured.

Flynn was surprised to see the look in the stranger's eyes lighten up a tad. "No kill-shots," a strikingly familiar voice with a southern Eastern Kingdoms drawl said, harsh enough that it bordered on rasping. There's a tease to the tone, and Flynn grinned wide.

The stranger brandished his dagger with a quick step towards Flynn. Flynn's right arm was a dead weight out of it's socket, so Flynn's forced to counter it with the tankard. One trait Flynn was blessed with was excellent hand eye coordination—which he paid for with his poor sense of direction—and after some trying rebuffs, he managed to knock the dagger from the strangers hand, provoking Flynn into making a victorious noise.

Then, like a true brawl, a mean right hook caught Flynn off guard and knocked him onto his backside.

His ears rushed with blood and his head shook, and he waited for the fuzzy feeling to pass, as always. He opened his eyes to find the stranger staring down at him with a look that Flynn's brain was too jostled to properly decipher with only the eyes. The crowd was absolutely losing it, a mysterious mainland stranger having won the Crab Pot.

The stranger extended his left hand towards Flynn, and Flynn found that odd before he abruptly remembered that his right arm was pulled from its socket. He reached his own left hand out, clasping the stranger by the wrist and letting himself be hauled to his feet. The stranger let out a pained grunt as he helped Flynn up, one that showed his age.

Flynn gave him a half-smile. "Can I buy the man that properly ran me through a drink?"

The stranger took his hand back from Flynn, and waved him away as he walked around Flynn.

"C'mon, doesn't have to be alcohol," Flynn tried, turning towards the man as he moved away. He got another hand-wave for his efforts, more weary than dismissive, and watched as the stranger pulled two pouches; his own, and Flynn's. The stranger then exchanged a few words with Nancy, hopped the railing, and made his way out of the tavern.

And then every part of Flynn's body hurt.

"It seems our mysterious mainlander winner wanted the rest of the winnings to go to drinks for everybody!" Nancy called out as Flynn collected his other cutlass and hauled himself over the railing, listening to the tavern whip up into a frenzy. He doesn't miss Nancy moving towards some trusted and rather beefy patrons that regulared the tavern, but he was a bit preoccupied to watch what happened.

"You deserved that," Taelia said as Flynn approached, but he could see the sympathetic look she was fighting back.

"I asked for it, too," Flynn said, holding his bleeding side with his left hand.

Taelia looked him over as she lost the fight. "You want me to take you to a healer?"

"I'd like that very much, thank you."

* * *

Dark clouds loomed in the distance, bad enough that expeditions were halted until it passed. The _Middenwake_ had to face dragons and elemental lords on the regular, he wasn't about to throw his ship into a storm and roll those dice when he didn't need to. The distant sound of thunder rumbled through the air as Flynn passed through the Harbormaster's office, giving a nod towards Cyrus and headed out to the harbor. The harbor was always busy with blue and gold these days, the occasional gaudily dressed adventurer breaking up the color monotony.

Some glowing pauldrons and a head of coppery hair caught Flynn's eye, and he looked over to see him talking with the quartermaster of the 7th Legion, standing next to a crate filled with glittering azerite. Flynn watched their exchange, trying to look casual with his idling about. Eventually, the quartermaster saluted, took the crate of azerite, and hauled it onto the ship.

"Captain Fairwind," Shaw greeted, turning to face Flynn. "You're looking worse for wear." Shaw was very good at keeping his face a neutral expression, but Flynn was sure that he saw the barest hint of a smirk playing across his face. Smug bastard.

Flynn no longer had any open wounds, but the bruise that had now formed on his jaw remained, and he was sore all over. Healers were expensive, after all. It didn't surprise Flynn that the affects of last night showed on him. "Got in a tussle. Nothing too bad. Shoulda seen the other guys, in all honesty." Shaw hummed in response, something affirming yet noncommittal, keeping his face composed. "What was that all about?"

"Some scrimshaws got their hands on a few crates of azerite," Shaw said, "I have agents looking into where they're getting it from, but we have managed to recover one crate last night."

"You going out and getting your hands dirty, mate?" Shaw's look turned from neutral to analytic at Flynn's words, a subtle shift, but it was more than most of his expression changes. Flynn held the spymaster's gaze.

"I should thank you for your efforts," Shaw decided on, conveniently ignoring Flynn and finding him flatfooted.

"Beg pardon?" Flynn asked.

"Yes," Shaw continued, clasping his hands behind his back, "you helped facilitate the recovery of this crate, even if it was in a..." he cleared his throat, "roundabout way."

Flynn frowned. "I'm not following."

Shaw took a breath that he very carefully did not release as a sigh. "You were right on who was partaking in azerite recreationally. It wasn't hard to follow the trail."

Flynn nodded along, "and, pray tell, when did I happen to share this information?"

Shaw's face turned unreadable, an eyebrow hiking up as he looked over Flynn once again, "I've got eyes and ears everywhere, Captain."

"I'd expect nothing less from a spymaster, especially one with such a prestigious position such as yourself," Flynn continued, "but I wonder, how often are they your own eyes and ears?"

"Often enough."

Flynn hummed, "and who was the one who gave you that bruise on your head that didn't get fully touched up by a healer?"

The unreadable expression deepened, "a scoundrel that continued to ask for trouble."

"Dashing fellow?"

"Hardly."

Flynn couldn't stop the insulted look that came across his face, and Shaw's mouth turned up into a proper smirk. Smug bastard indeed. He turned, pulling something out of his pocket, and tossed it to Flynn. Flynn caught it, noting that it was his coin pouch. "Do something like that again, Captain," Shaw said as he drew in close, tilting his head up slightly to whisper in Flynn's ear, "and I will thoroughly enjoy watching you face the full consequences of your actions."

Flynn turned his head down to Shaw and grinned. "Promise?"

Thunder boomed, edging closer. Shaw pulled away with an air of professionalism. "Dismissed, Captain."

"Aye, Spymaster. Next round's on me."


End file.
